What We Could Have
by orsumfenix
Summary: And you could have her, you're sure, but you can never bring yourself to stop her from leaving. Angsty Nix.


_**Wow, this story is depressing. I've never actually written Nix before, but I do find the pairing really interesting, as well as the characters, and I have often wondered whether a relationship between them would actually work out or not. **_

_**So this is me, writing the different interpretations, I guess, of what might actually happen if we saw more interactions between these two. But, of course, since it's me, I ended up writing something horribly sad and angsty. Sorry. **_

_**Disclaimer: Don't own Lorien Legacies, just depressing storylines using the characters. **_

**1a (The Situation): **

You are sitting on an armchair and an amazing girl is next to you. She has long black hair, strong cheekbones and the eyes of an angel. Her gaze is focused on the program, martial arts, taking in the moves being pulled off and mentally putting them into practice. You wish you could see inside her mind. It must be wonderful in there.

She notices you staring and frowns, still managing to look radiant.

"What?" she demands hotly, folding her arms and scowling. You smile lazily at her, crossing your own arms and leaning your head back.

"Just admiring the view," you respond coolly, a goofy smile on your face. She takes a moment to respond, running through what you've said, before her tanned skin tinges slightly and you realise that she's _blushing_. The smile on your face is real, if smaller, and more genuine now.

She doesn't know what to do, so she stands up and begins to walk away.

**1b (What You Want To Do): **

You make a move to go after her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her backwards. She's strong, and a good fighter, using her skills to pull out of your hold in seconds, but she doesn't leave. She stays standing there, looking up at you (she's surprisingly small, you realise), eyes uncertain in the sunlight pouring through the window.

The two of you are alone.

"Nine?" she begins, tone unsure, a far cry from how she usually sounds. "What are you…?"

She trails off as you lean in to kiss her, taking in the warmth radiating off her body. She is frozen in shock for seconds, before she begins to kiss back, hesitant but firm, somehow. She's contradictory like that, but you don't mind. You think she's amazing for being able to be that way.

The program fades into the background, and the two of you are together.

**2a (The Situation): **

You are punching a bag, and an amazing girl is there with you. You stand side by side, letting out your anger and frustration of the obnoxiously blue punching bag, and you can't help but glance at her out the corner of your eye. Her hair is tied back into a loose ponytail, sweat gleams on her forehead, and her pronounced cheekbones have gone darker through the exhaustion. You think she's never looked more beautiful.

You're so focused on her that your next punch misses and you stumble towards the wall, off balance. You manage to regain your footing and look up, just in time to see her stop and stare at you, smile twitching at the corners of her lips.

"I thought you were supposed to be the best at fighting," she teases, and it's such a rare (but not unwelcome) sight that you take a second just to bask in the moment.

You scowl despite your glee at getting her to smile, which she is now doing widely and fully. You're not sure why she's finding _this_, of all things, something to beam at, but maybe now that she's gotten her anger out, she can let herself feel joyful, for a change.

**2b (What You Want To Do): **

You smile with her, moving to stand next to her.

"Guess I'm not as good as you," you offer light-heartedly, and she looks surprised at the rare compliment and admittance that you're _not _the best, but pleasantly so. Her smile is a little uncertain, as though she's waiting for you to take it back and deny you ever said it, but you don't. You weren't joking.

"Thanks," she says shortly, reaching up and tightening her ponytail, before going back to punching her bag. "But practice makes perfect, I guess."

You agree, and ask her to help you with your punches. Much to your pleasure, she agrees, and you spend the next hour flitting between learning from her (and she's a good instructor) and admiring her beauty.

**3a (The Situation): **

You're waiting outside the door, and an amazing girl is walking out through it. Her hair is wet and hanging limply around her, a single white towel is being held around her body, and she smells like cinnamon. You take this all in happily, not afraid to say that, in this moment, she's the most beautiful girl you've ever seen.

She frowns at the sight of you waiting with a big grin in your face, still managing to look gorgeous while doing so. The steam from the shower has fogged up the mirror behind her, you can see, and you think it's a shame that she didn't get to see her beauty for herself.

"There's other bathrooms, you know," she says bluntly, causing your smirk to spread even wider. She's always so plain, speaking the truth no matter how ugly, and some would call it unsubtle, but you think it's great that she isn't afraid to speak her mind. She's bold, brave and daring, and everything you wish you could be.

"What, I'm not allowed to wait to see the most beautiful girl in the world?" you ask with mock-hurt, even though the words you speak are true. She _is _the most beautiful girl in the world, in your opinion, anyway. Prettier than Maddy, prettier than Marina – prettier than an angel, you would even dare to say.

She frowns (she seems to do that a lot – she should smile more, it suits her) even deeper, her tanned skin still wet with droplets from her shower. In truth, you're not sure _why _you sought her out – perhaps to apologise for all the times you've acted like a jerk, perhaps to try and spend time with her, or perhaps to simply catch a glimpse of natural beauty.

She doesn't need makeup or extravagance of any kind – she's best at her plainest, you think, or in the heat of battle.

Or, in your opinion, when she's just stepped out of the shower.

"You don't mean that," she finally says, after having thought it through for a while. And, oh god, she thinks you're just saying it to be _flirty_. The truth is a far cry from that. You really do mean it.

**3b (What You Want To Do): **

Before she can get any false ideas about what you think of her, before she can firmly get into her head that you don't think she's _really _beautiful, you step forward and let the cheesy smile fall, replacing it with a small, genuine, honest one. You rarely let your true self shine through, but you're willing to, for her.

"Six," you say quietly, though you're sure that to both of you it's plenty loud enough to your ears. "I _do _mean that. I think that you're beautiful, and wonderful, and fantastic, and…" You trail off, not quite sure if you're ready to confess, but one look at her deep, lovely eyes in enough to give you the courage. You take a deep breath and continue. "And I think that I might love you."

She continues to stare at you, stricken, and you can't tell whether that's good or bad so you move forward and wrap her in your embrace, taking in how _small _she feels compare to how she looks in a fight. For a moment you're worried that you've got it wrong, that she _doesn't _like you, not at all, but next thing you know her arms are creeping up to return the hug.

You won't kiss her, you're not ready for that, not yet, but for now, the hug is enough. Both of you are hesitant, have had bad track records with people that you love, and for a moment you're struck with the image of _Maddy_, after, the beast… But you shake that memory off, and just take in the scent of cinnamon, the insecurity radiating off her, and the amazing girl in your arms.

**4a (The Situation): **

You're sitting at a dining table, and an amazing girl is angry at you. The others are all still in bed, asleep, but the two of you are facing each other. She's on her feet, eyes blazing, hair a mess, black training clothes on. You stare at her with guilt, wondering why you feel so bad at just a little thing.

"So, what?" she questions, stance firm, as though she's ready to fight (and you find it sad that, she's so used to it, that that's her natural reaction by now). Every inch of her is practically _vibrating _off hostile waves, and you glance at the floor, eyes flickering guiltily. It's _your fault _that she's mad, you know it. "You're too _strong _to accept help when you need it?" She gestures at your leg, muscles twitching. "That calf is _screwed up_, and you're not even letting me _help _you!"

You don't know why she's so angry about it, but it makes you feel bad all the same. The light from the bulb shines down on the two of you, aided by the pretty stars in the sky and the full moon shining. The lights all reflect on her eyes, and it's a beautiful sight.

"_Maybe _I don't need any help!" you bite back, because you want to believe that you're strong enough to do this alone. You don't want to show weakness to anyone, especially not to _her_, because she's so strong that she'd probably laugh at you for needing someone to help.

Something in her seems to deflate slightly, then, though she stills holds the strong posture and her scowl remains plastered on her face.

"We all need help sometimes," she mutters, closing her eyes momentarily, before reopening them and staring at you with a deep, soulful _sadness _that makes your heart wilt. "Even when we like to think that we don't."

She moves forward, towards you, and your eyes follow her every move, tense with anticipation of what she's going to try and do.

She stares you down from above you, hands on hips, and you find it odd that such a _small _figure could hold _that much _strength.

"Now are you going to let me help you, or not?"

**4b (What You Want To Do): **

You take in what she's just said, what she's talked about, and how even _she _is able to admit to needing help, and wonder why she has to look so beautiful under the fluorescent light.

"Okay," you whisper, quietly, because you can't bear to let yourself ask for assistance any louder, for fear that _someone _(and even _you _don't know who) might hear.

A small smile creeps onto her face, genuine, happy but sad. She moves forward and rolls up your baggy trouser leg, touching the wound slightly and jerking back when you hiss in pain. She looks up, as if wondering whether or not to go ahead, but you nod stiffly, and she helps you.

**5a (The Situation): **

You're fighting in a battle, and an amazing girl is fighting there, too. You mainly focus on slaughtering your enemies, making sure your opponents won't get back up, but you make sure to glance in her direction a lot, just to make sure that she's okay and she's alright and she's not going to get hurt.

Logically, you know that she's probably be fine. She's tough, strong, better than you ever were, and she can take whatever the Mogs throw at them. Still, that doesn't quench your fear each time it looks like she might not have the upper hand, until she does.

Even in battle, she looks radiant, expression grim but eyes alight with a twisted pleasure and uncontrolled fury. She's like fire, burning and bright, and if you go to close then you might get burnt, but at the same time she's like ice, sharp and stiff and visibly emotionless. Her surface and inner workings are completely different, but you're sure that you can love both sides of her, given the chance.

She doesn't see the sword coming towards her, but you do.

**5b (What You Want To Do): **

You leap forwards, abandoning the soldiers that you are fighting, and grab the sword, throwing it off to the side before it can reach her. Setrakus has pulled the same dirty trick, gotten rid of your powers, but you can still fight, and you can still help each other.

She sees that you've saved her, and smiles gratefully, running off to fight another soldier, brushing your hand along the way filling your body with warmth and making your heart tingle with butterflies. You smile like an idiot, even whilst fighting soldiers, and mentally replay that moment of contact.

**1c (What Really Happens): **

You stay seated on the couch, watching her retreating back, eyes following her out the room. She doesn't come back, and you don't try to stop her – you're too much of a coward for that.

**2c (What Really Happens): **

"Yeah, well," you mutter, moving back over to your punching bag. "I was strong enough not to get stuck in a useless _rock _fighting Setrakus."

Her face falls, the smile drops, and you regret the words as soon as they're out of your mouth.

She grabs her towel and water bottle as she walks out, not sparing you a glance.

**3c (What Really Happens): **

You snort, hating yourself as you do so.

"I'm waiting to use my beautiful bathroom," you say matter of factly, trying to ignore the way her face falls and her eyes shine with slight pain. She rarely gets true compliments, and never off you, so you don't know why you're taking it back, but she should be expecting it. This is _you_, after all. you lean against the wall, faking talking to the room. "Aren't I, babe?"

You continue to stare at the inside of the room long after she has gone, smile hollow and false on your face.

**4c (What Really Happens): **

"I don't. Need. Help," you hiss, glaring and feeling an odd sense of satisfaction as she moves backwards, arms falling. "Not from anyone, and especially not from _you_."

The pain flickers in her eyes momentarily before she pushes it down, just like she does with every emotion.

She makes an odd sound of disgust in the back of her throat, eyes glinting from anger, not the light, before walking away.

**5c (What Really Happens): **

You leave it to her, convinced she can take care of herself, but the sound of choking causes you to look back. The sword has gone through her chest from behind, the Mogs look smug, and, just like the other times, she's gone before you reach her.

When you get there her legs aren't moving, walking away. She isn't smiling _or _scowling – she's motionless, expressionless. She doesn't smell like cinnamon – the metallic tang of blood fills your nostrils. Her eyes aren't glinting with uncertainty, and her face, her cheekbones, aren't carved into a frown.

But, still.

She's beautiful.

She's amazing, even in death.

**6 (The Wishes): **

Afterwards, you reflect, and wonder if you could have done things differently. If you could have loved her, if you'd tried, and if she could have loved you back.

But it's too late now.

All you can is wonder what could have been.

**_Thanks for reading, and please review! _**


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